


fulfilled.

by StormsBreadth



Category: Sir Gawain and the Green Knight
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Dom/sub Undertones, Dubious Consent, Exhibitionism, F/M, Humiliation, M/M, Oral Sex, canon-typical religious angst around sex, it's like 500 ad no-one's invented kink negotiation yet, it's medieval and christian everyone has a shame boner at all times, some sexuality and graphic nudity, the humiliation is more an internal thing than an active kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-07
Updated: 2020-11-07
Packaged: 2021-03-09 05:15:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,970
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27429304
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StormsBreadth/pseuds/StormsBreadth
Summary: ‘I shall gladly fulfill our formal agreement,’ Gawain says. ‘But my prize is a somewhat delicate matter. Perhaps my good lord - and friend - would prefer to hear of it privately.’While the lord hunts, Gawain is given more than a kiss. When the lord returns, he gives as good as he has been given.
Relationships: Gawain/Bertilak de Hautdesert, Lady Bertilak/Gawain
Comments: 8
Kudos: 33





	fulfilled.

**Author's Note:**

> I’m not a medievalist, and I read Sir Gawain and the Green Knight in translation after someone allowed me to LARP as an Extremely Horny On Main version of Sir Gawain. It’s been sitting in my drafts for _mumblemumble_ years at this point but I thought I’d dust it off in honour of a24 announcing that their Sir Gawain film will have an R-rating for some sexuality and graphic nudity. 
> 
> I've tried to get the vibes right, but I'm fair from a medievalist and I read the poem in translation, so who knows how that's gone. the question of what the fuck Gawain is doing with the girdle is not addressed because i am here for Horny Reasons Only.

The lady leaves him in his borrowed bed, naked and still breathless from her gift. He gazes at the ceiling of the bed, tracing the whirls of carved wood with his eyes as he replays the earlier events in his head. 

There had been something different about the way she came to him this morning, compared to the previous two days. A new purpose to her movements, a new cadence to her speech. For all they called him naive at Camelot, Gawain was not completely clueless. He had known from the start, that when she spoke of love, she was also speaking of desire. 

He had refused her so far, deflected where he could. It was hard, when she sat so close to him that he could feel the warmth of her skin, breath in the scent of her hair. He had been this close to women before - to beautiful maidens, even. But there was something different about this lady, for all her apparent innocence. 

It had taken all Gawain’s strength to push her away a final time. He thought she had conceded - until she spoke of gifts. Then, Gawain’s mind had turned again to his wager and the thought that whatever he received, he would also have to give…

He would blame the distraction for what happened next, but it wouldn’t be entirely true. When she had pressed the girdle into his hands and kisses onto his lips, he hadn’t the will to stop her from pressing kisses to his shoulders, across the scars from his travels and down his stomach. He had thought she might continue down to his feet, which was almost an amusing prospect. But she didn’t. She stopped at his prick, and, peeking up at him through her eyelashes, had pressed two kisses to his thigh before taking it into her mouth. 

He wasn’t used to having anyone but himself touch his prick - and then, only really for washing. It was so much more sensitive to have someone else touch him. The wet heat and quick movements of her mouth were overwhelming. He’d tried to hold her gaze, to talk to her, but words failed him right off the bat, and it wasn’t too long before a peak of pleasure had him gasping, thrusting, and staring up at the ceiling overhead. 

The same ceiling he stares at now. 

He cannot shake the feeling that he has been played. Her smile as she left him was not the innocent smile of the girl he spent some days talking to, but the confident smirk of a woman who has gained what she came for. Guilt settles over Gawain like the covers he now lies sprawled upon. He feels shame, both for the sins he has accepted with the lady’s clever mouth, and for the foolishness of allowing himself to fall into the trap. 

And yet. Guilt is not all he feels. There’s another warm, heavy feeling, that he can’t quite describe, somewhere between agitation and contentment, an excitement that isn’t quite excitement. It’s heady and carnal and he can’t seem to let go of it. 

Disgusted with himself, Gawain forces himself to get up. He cannot remain in bed all day. 

He pulls himself upright and gathers his clothes. They feel strange on his skin, now. It’s overly sensitive, and he feels the drag of linen against the places the lady had touched, not even an hour before. He removes his clothes again and scrubs himself vigorously at the washbasin. It doesn’t really help. 

As he heads through the castle, he finds himself lingering by the chapel, but cannot bring himself to go in. Not with the knowledge of what he now owes the lord of the castle. He prays the lord will accept his confession, and his penitence, after the evening’s done. 

When he comes into the main hall, the lady is not in the group of women sitting by the fire. He does not know whether to feel relieved or disappointed by this. He wants to talk to her, but does not know if he could meet her eyes, knowing that the last time he did, she was down between his legs. 

One of the bolder ladies calls him over, and he joins them gladly. The fire is warm and the women are welcoming. Their conversation remains light: many are preoccupied with their sewing, or other small crafts that the work with nimble fingers. Gawain’s mind drifts. His eyes stray to the great double doors, and his mind to the moment of the lord’s arrival. How would it feel to give such a gift as he himself had been given, to take another man’s prick between his own lips. When he thinks no-one is looking, he puts his fingers to his mouth. 

Through the high windows, he sees the sky grow dark. More logs are piled on the fire. Gawain knows it won’t be long until the hunt returns from their day’s labour. He makes himself make merry with the women to pass the time and distract himself, but still. He glances over at every noise. 

Then, all of a sudden, there’s a cacophony without. The doors slam open, bringing in a burst of cold air and a tumult of men, red faced from the wind and merry, triumphantly carrying a fox’s pelt at the head of the group. 

The hunt has returned.

Gawain’s heart starts beating rapidly in his chest, and the fire he’s sitting by is too hot all of a sudden. He gets to his feet. The ladies tease him gently, but his heart is hammering too hard to hear them properly. 

The lord is standing at the back. It takes a moment for Gawain to spot him, but once he’s through the doors it’s impossible not to. He towers over the other men in his group. He towers over Gawain as well. 

The men fan out, some going to sit with the ladies by the fire, others on the benches to the other side of the hall. Gawain is surrounded, only the lord left in front of him, and the man who has been selected to bear the fox fur a little to the side. It’s such an uncomplicated gift. Gawain’s cheeks already burn with shame looking at it, and comparing it with his own offering.

The lord steps forward, his face breaking out into a smile to see Gawain standing there. Before he can say anything, Gawain holds up a hand, and steps forward, silently asking to be allowed to speak first. The lord closes his mouth, inclines his head. 

‘I shall gladly fulfill our formal agreement,’ Gawain says. He keeps his gaze fixed on the lord’s face, refuses to let it stray downwards, from shame or from anticipation. ‘But my prize is a somewhat delicate matter. Perhaps my good lord - and friend - would prefer to hear of it privately.’

The lord holds his gaze, raises his bushy eyebrows. There’s a look in his eyes that Gawain can’t read. He gets the sense, as he stands there, that he is the one being read. 

‘Surely,’ the lord replies, the pauses. Gawain swallows. His mouth is dry. After a second, the lord continues: ‘You would not deny my gentlemen the knowledge of what their day’s hunt has won.’ 

For a second, Gawain considers lying. Then he considers telling the truth, out loud, to shame the lord into releasing him from the wager. Or at least into requesting a more discreet room.

But there’s a challenge in the Lord’s eyes, and Gawain has never been one to back down from a challenge. It’s what led him to track across the wilds of Britain in search of the man - or monster - who called upon his honour. It’s also what leads him, now, to sink down to his knees and look the lord in front of him in the eyes. 

‘If my host would but unlace his breeches, I might present to him the gifts that were so kindly given to me.’

The room falls quiet. Gawain works to keep his breathing even and convince himself that the burning in his stomach is pure shame at having so many witnesses to his weakness, and not anticipation or excitement. He stares straight ahead, but this doesn’t help much. While Gawain is not a tall man, especially compared to the lord’s almost unnatural stature, fate has made it so that his face is almost perfectly level with the lord’s crotch. 

The lord steps forward and places a gentle hand on the side of Gawain’s face. Gawain can’t help but draw in a sharp breath as he does: the man’s hands are still cold from the outside. 

He pays Gawain no mind though, using his fingers to tilt Gawain’s chin up and force him to make eye contact. The lord’s eyes are a deep green, his expression calm, contemplative, as though mulling over how best to use the gift he’s being offered. His expression sends a hot flush down Gawain’s front, settling in his groin as the first hint of arousal.

The feeling grows when the lord runs his thumb over Gawain’s lips, parting them just slightly. Gawain’s not been touched like this before and it drives him to distraction. The physical sensation is light and makes him want to both squirm away and lean in at the same time, but the feeling of being assessed, the casual possessiveness in the gesture, is arousing in a way that he hadn’t anticipated, and he finds himself shifting on the flagstones as his prick swells to attention. He doesn’t know if any of their spectators can see it, but with the hold on his chin he can’t look around to check. 

‘Generous sir,’ the lord says. His tone is light, almost amused, but there’s an undertone of something heavier. In the space between his words, all Gawain can hear is the crackling of the fire. It’s as though everyone else in the room is holding their breath. ‘Forgive me for daring to ask more than has been offered and hoping, childlike, for a greater satisfaction, but am I truly to believe that a knight so versed in love as yourself would accept such a prize without deigning to also receive so much as a tender word, or a kiss?’

It takes a moment for Gawain to understand what the lord is saying, it’s so far from what he expected. But once he realises the meaning of the request, he gets to his feet, brushing off knees that, although used to taking a penitential position, are already starting to ache on the cushionless stone of the hall. 

The gathered company lets out a sigh. As Gawain’s knees creak back to their customary position, he spares a glance around. 

A few of the ladies who were sat by the fire have departed, but those who remain are watching him, their needlework motionless and forgotten in their hands. The menfolk have mostly stayed. They lean against walls or sit on benches, their faces a range of expressions: curious, mocking. Interested. Gawain does not dare to look down below their waists but, blushing, turns his attention back to the lord. 

‘Forgive me, gentle host,’ he said. ‘I did not consider the generous words offered to my form an appropriate prize - unless my lord would like me to comment on the boyish smoothness of his cheek.’ His words draw laughter from the assembled folks, and he catches a smile about the lord’s mouth before he demurely lowers his gaze. ‘But I should have foreseen that the kisses would be to your taste; come, sir, and claim your prizes in whatever order you so choose.’ 

No sooner have the words left his mouth than the lord is pulling him in close. The fronts of their bodies are pressed together: Gawain can feel the buckles on the lord’s clothes through the fabric of his own. His other hand returns to Gawain’s face, guiding his gaze upwards until their mouths meet. The kiss is different to the ones they shared the previous two nights: not so chaste and tender, deeper, more sinful. It’s different to the kisses he shared with the lady also. While they were charming, almost playful, the lord’s kisses are aggressive. He is no longer the magnanimous recipient of a gift, but a man claiming his prize. His tongue forces its way past Gawain’s lips, but once it has, then Gawain opens his mouth fully, allowing his host to explore his mouth, to claim him.

The way their mouths move together feels incredible. Gawain thinks he knows, now, why people risk eternal damnation. He hears a soft moaning noise, and only realises a few seconds later that it came from him. Someone wolf whistles in response and Gawain starts to cringe away, but he’s distracted by the feel of the lord running his tongue along Gawain’s teeth, and smiling into his mouth. 

Gawain jumps at the feel of a hand caressing his arse. His prick jumps too, and there’s another wolf whistle. His head feels hazy - he needs a second to think. He pulls away from the lord, who lets him go, shifts his hand up an inch or two to rest more firmly on Gawain’s back. 

He doesn’t say anything, but looks kindly at Gawain. He’s so calm and assured, confident in his own realm. Something about him reminds Gawain of King Arthur. His court isn’t nearly so virtuous as Camelot’s, though - no-one in Camelot would stay to watch someone give another carnal pleasure. 

Or, at least, Gawain doesn’t think they would. 

He blinks. Memories of Camelot make his head swim slightly. He doesn’t know what he’s doing here, really. He looks back up to the lord’s gaze. It feels like a question, but if Gawain thinks too hard about what the right answer is - what honour demands or virtue, or what he himself desires or the crowd around them are expecting - he will go mad. So he chooses, at least for now, not to think, and dives back into the kiss instead. The hand on his back returns downwards, exploring the juncture of his arse and the tops of his thighs, fingertips brushing at the space between them. It’s sensitive there, and Gawain’s prick grows harder. 

Gawain thrusts clumsily up against him. The movement does frustratingly little to ease the growing pressure. While Gawain may be dressed in the fine clothes of one expecting to remain inside all day, the knight he’s now pressed up against is in the thick layers and leathers of a man going out on the hunt. If he is as affected as Gawain is, it doesn’t show through what he’s wearing. 

More than anything else right now, Gawain hopes that the lord is as affected as he is. 

He pulls away from the kiss. The hand which had been fondling his arse shifts back up to the small of his back and the lord meets Gawain’s gaze, his expression patient, waiting. 

He’s a fair amount taller than Gawain. It adds to his lordly bearing, in contrast to Gawain who is, in truth as in appearance, scarcely out of boyhood. His jaw is strong, his face starting to bear the lines of age, his eyes steady, knowing. Gawain feels seen by him. It’s nothing like the maidens Gawain has flirted with before today. Not even like the lady he passed the time with earlier. 

Deliberately, Gawain stretches up onto his tiptoes, taking the lord’s face in his hands. He feels his beard prickling against the palms of his hands and savours it, just as he savours the roughness when their lips meet again. He kisses the lord slowly, brazen in his thoroughness. 

He is allowed this indulgence for a few seconds before a pair of firm hands push him away. He doesn’t fight it, lowering his gaze in contrition, tongue flicking out to lick his lips where the ghost of the kiss still lingers on them. 

His gaze is forced up, then, by those same firm hands. He shuts his eyes for a second, breathing to steady himself before looking up to meet the lord’s gaze.

When he does, he has to take another breath, shakier than the last. Shakier than he intends. The lord’s eyes are burning with an intensity that Gawain hasn’t seen before. He imagines, briefly, that this is the sort of gaze shared in private, between husband and wife late in the night. 

Briefly, because he immediately realises that this is not the gaze of holy matrimony. It isn’t a gaze which calls for the sacred task of bringing children into the world. It is a gaze of an entirely different nature, one which makes Gawain weak at the knees.

It is fitting, perhaps, that the lord takes this moment to place a hand on his shoulder and press him gently down. Gawain finds himself sunk to the floor before him, laid low by the lightest touch where he had previously taken the mightiest blows and laughed. The shock of his knees hitting the flagstones brings him back to the reality of the situation, for a moment. From here, the space between them lets Gawain glance around to the lord’s household again, and he burns again with shame. 

Just as the thought reaches his mind, it ceases to matter. The lord is reaching to unlace his breeches. Gawain draws in a sharp breath, and the lord pauses, a hand ceasing its task and tilting Gawain’s face up again. There’s something thrilling about this treatment, about being taken in hand and forced to do what he would be glad to do anyway. The feeling fills Gawain’s throat and makes talking hard, but he makes himself speak anyway:

‘Pray thee, my lord,’ he manages to breathe out. ‘Allow me to take care of the revealing.’ 

For a moment, the lord is silent, running the pad of his thumb over Gawain’s face. He doesn’t say anything in response to Gawain’s request, just nods, and moves his hand back to tighten in Gawain’s curls, twisting until the feeling is just on the edge of pain and Gawain can’t look away from the lord’s face.

Gawain flicks his tongue out without thinking, tasting where the lord’s thumb had been a second before. His inability to move his head means he can’t see quite what his fingers are doing, but even as they fumble the ties he can’t begrudge the lord this. The hand in his hair keeps him grounded even as he feels himself sinking into the lord’s deep, glittering eyes. They’re intense, but there’s a hint of a smile in them as well. Not a gentle smile now, not any more. A proud smile, with an edge of something else. Hunger, maybe? Or possessiveness. Gawain is a prize that the lord has right won, and now has the chance to show off and enjoy. 

In the process of undoing the lord’s britches, Gawain finds that his own are uncomfortably tight. He doesn’t make to loosen them though, or otherwise ease his discomfort. Even if he could bring himself to be so bare for the man alone, he could not stand to have that particular shame revealed to all his court. 

Finally, he manages to release the lord’s manhood. It springs up in his face, flesh firm. The Lord is definitely at least as interested as Gawain is by these proceedings. His prick is larger than any that Gawain has seen before. He can smell the lord’s sweat on it, and something else besides. He shuts his eyes for a moment to breathe in the heavy, musky scent, and wonders if it’s possible to get drunk off of breathing. 

The fist in his hair loosens slightly, leaving the back of his scalp to tingle, and he lets his head drop for a second. Then he looks up again, eyes open, searching the lord’s face for guidance, or permission. 

He’s not sure if he sees either in the lord’s steady gaze. He risks it, and takes the lord’s manhood in his hand to press his lips, reverent, to the tip. 

His action is met by a sharp intake of breath from the lord, and a jeer from the crowd around him. Before he can back away, look down in humiliation, he feels a gentle pressure at the back of his head. This isn’t an order, he knows. It’s more a suggestion. Obedient regardless, Gawain opens his mouth and allows the lord to push his swollen prick deeper into his mouth. The underside of his prick drags along Gawain’s tongue, tasting of skin and sweat. Gaawain thinks this should be unpleasant, but the taste is intoxicating instead. Combined with the fullness of it, the way it stretches Gawain’s mouth, he finds himself a little overwhelmed. 

The tip of it touches the back of Gawain’s throat. He finds himself gagging in surprise. 

The pressure at the bank of his head switches directions abruptly. The lord stops guiding Gawain’s mouth onto his prick, and yanaks him back by the hair instead. It’s rough enough thatGawain suddenly finds tears pricking at the edge of his eyes. 

People are talking all around, but Gawain can’t process any of their words. There’s too many of them, too far away, and their words blend in with the rush of blood in Gawain’s ears and the voices in his own head telling him just how humiliating this is. Bad enough that this is something he’s doing. Worse that he can’t even be good at it.

He mouth is wet from where saliva started pooling around the lord’s prick. He tries to swallow, but it goes wrong in his throat and he chokes instead. His coughing cuts through the hubbub, echoing off the walls. Gawain breathes, wiping his mouth and trying to return to himself. 

‘My lord, pray, do not mistake my inexperience for unwillingness.’ He stops, searching for the right words. ‘You will find me a quick learner when occasion calls for it, and I have faced greater challenges and risen to them as well.’ He pauses again, weighing up the phrase that sprung unbidden to his mind, before concluding that his personality has got him this far already. ‘As my lord can surely see, I am risen to this as well.’ 

He still feels ashamed to show his desire, but the shame is now overshadowed by his need to prove himself, both to the lord and to those watching. Carefully, he moves his knees apart and pushes the fabric of his clothing to the side. Sure enough, the lord’s gaze followed his movement and he looks down between Gawain’s legs, to the obvious fullness of his own prick. 

Having had his moment of boldness, shame rises up in Gawain again, crawling up his spine to pinch the back of his neck tight. He forces himself to ignore it, to keep looking up. Perhaps his pride will only add to his later suffering, but for now he owns his choices and looks up to the lord’s face again. 

He’s met with a small smile, more gentle than before. The lord’s moods seem to change like the weather, proud to gentle in the time it takes for Gawain to look down and up again. It’s intoxicating, not quite knowing what will happen next. 

The lord presses a finger to Gawain’s lower lip. Emboldened, Gawain kisses it, before opening his mouth again obediently. The lord takes his own length in hand this time, and guides it slowly into Gawain’s waiting mouth. 

This time, Gawain is more prepared for the intrusion. He breathes in through his nose as the lord’s prick slides down the length of his mouth, and holds it as the tip touches the back of his throat again. He wants to cough and spit and gag but makes himself take it, clenching and unclenching his fist as his throat twitches around the head. He tells himself that it can’t last too long like this, that the lord has no reason to wait as he is. He feels the urge to bite down just to get some flex to his jaw. Denies it. He’s faced down armies before. He’s waited hours for the signal to attack. This feels even longer than that. 

The lord pulls back a little. Gawain still can’t swallow properly with his mouth as full as it is, but he sucks in a breath and feels relief that his throat is no longer being touched. 

It doesn’t last long. 

The lord thrusts back in, his hand tightening in Gawain’s hair. He doesn’t linger for more than a second though, just enough time for Gawain to register that he’s close to choking, before he pulls back out. Then he thrusts in again, and again. All Gawain can do is try to breathe in the split seconds between his thrusts, and try not to cough or choke or let his throat rebel in the moments when the lord is fully inside him. Spit pools in his mouth, but he can swallow it, so it dribbles out of his mouth as the lord pulls backwards. 

He can’t see the people around them. He can hear them though, as though through a screen. There’s grunts, the occasional jeer or cheer, but they don’t matter any more. All that matters right now is the feeling of the lord fucking into his mouth. He feels the ache of his own prick, the desperate urge to pull it out and grasp it, use his hand as roughly as the lord is using his mouth. 

He can’t. 

Something about that feels wrong. It would be even more debauched that what’s being done to him now. Here, although his cheeks are stained scarlet and there’s drool running down his face and another man is using him for his pleasure, he’s not fully exposed. Some part of him that still feels a sense of decency is clinging to this, making him grasp his hands tightly together behind his back. 

The lord’s thrusts grow more and more erratic as he speeds up. Gawwain can hear his breathing quickening. There’s a moment where he overreaches and his cock slips out of Gawain’s mouth to hit his cheek instead, giving him a merciful few seconds to gulp down some air and swallow the spit. Gawain draws another ragged breath, and opens his mouth again, inviting the lord to put his prick back in him. 

They manage to coordinate well enough this time. The lord thrusts three more times into his mouth and then, with a grunt, pulls Gawain fast against him. Liquid spurts against the back of Gawain’s throat, too far back for him to taste it at first. He wants to cough again but he’s pulled too close to the lord to move or do anything but bury his face in the skin and fabric it’s pressed against. The lord pulls back a fraction of an inch, smearing his spend on the back of Gawain’s tongue. He has a moment to notice the taste - claggy, close to sour - before the lord thrusts shallowly into him again, then pulls out. 

Gawain can’t really control what his mouth is doing right now, so both spit and spend come out with the lord’s prick and trail down Gawain’s face. He manages not to cough, at least, just kneels there, panting. His head flops forward, and a tear splashes onto the flagstone in front of him. Gawain hadn’t noticed he’d been crying. 

A gentle hand tilts his chin up. Gawain can’t meet the lord’s gaze right now, it’s too much. He looks away. He didn’t even get a chance to wipe his face, before being pulled back up to look. 

He lifts a hand, meaning to scrub away some of the fluids that are covering his face, but a hand catches his before he can. He opens his eyes. The lord’s gaze is gentle again. 

‘This prize surely outweighs any mere animal I could have given a thousand times over,’ he says, voice a low rumble. ‘And for your courtesy I thank you, good Sir Gawain.’ 

The praise makes it slightly hard to breath again. Gawain blinks stupidly up at him as the lord swipes a thumb gently over his chin, flicking away the gathered filth like it’s nothing. He pulls Gawain to his feet. His knees creak in protest at being made to stand after so long kneeling on stone. 

Well, Gawain figures. They’d better get used to it. He’s going to have to spend a lot of time in church to make up for whatever this is. 

The lord is speaking again. 

‘But, although the words of our deal mean that now it is sealed, it is still due to me to extend courtesy where courtesy has been given.’ He looks around at the courtiers. Gawain tries to follow his gaze - the court seems suddenly quite studiously engrossed in other things, where just a few moments before they were cheering them on. ‘Perhaps somewhere more comfortable than the flagstones of my hall.’

Gawain blinks at him again. Words still aren’t working quite right, and he tries to sort through the insinuations to the words beneath. He nods, hoping that’s the right answer. The lord shakes his head, then sweeps his arms under Gawain and lifts him up like a swooning maiden. 

Well. Gawain supposes he rather is. Especially when you consider his own slight build in comparison to the giant who now holds him in his arms. 

‘To clarify, sir knight,’ he says in Gawain’s ear. ‘I have a bed, and a desire to relieve you of your current discomfort.’

That manages to make it through. Gawain flops his head against the lord’s shoulder.

‘Yes,’ he manages to say. ‘Please.’

**Author's Note:**

> And then he carries Gawain to a bedroom where his extremely smug wife is waiting and they have a threeways and ??? live happily ever after probably. 
> 
> feel free to [yell at me on twitter](http://twitter.com/stormsbreadth), though I don't post all that much arthuriana!


End file.
